Connections
by uriekuki
Summary: he breathes, they breathe. she bleeds, they bleed. they're in this together, they just don't know it. fate weaves a strange web. {A collection of drabbles}
1. Thistle

_тнιѕтℓє_

She tries not to move, the sounds of her impending doom nearing the shadows in which she's hidden herself. Protect them, protect them, protect them. It's a mantra that does nothing but roll around her mind, pushing everything else of importance out. They can't die here, they are far too young, still yet to taste the world.

So when he comes, reaches in to snag her little ones, she does not protest. A pin prick of pain, likened to that of stepping on a thistles cruel claws, steals her breath; eyes blue like her own, fur white as the snow yet darkened by a brown mask, gone - daughter stolen alongside her brothers.

* * *

_an: 99% of these drabbles will be chasing the sun themed. this drabble challenge spans the entire year and has been thought up by the amazing swyfte. ily. c:_


	2. Wide-Eyed

_ωιdє-єуєd_

The skull is cracked and yellowed, time having had its way with the fragile shell. Snaked out behind it are the other bones but they are hard to distinguish in the dim light of the hollowed tree, just meaningless sticks of white resting in a long-dead nest of bracken. She does not know that the scream has left her lungs, that it has been flung out into the quiet night, all but shattering it into delicate shards.

Fearing for her life no doubt, the others found their way in, hushed whispers not even finding their way into her ears. She swallows, unnerved by the skull's empty, wide-eyed stare, knowing in that moment what had to be done for the mother she'd hardly known.


	3. Meddle

_мєddℓє_

He grins, mocking and cold, watching his plan come together at last. The crumbling pathway steadily climbing round the side of the intimidating mountain is all but abandoned, save for the figure sporting ruffled creamy fur ambling up it. Walking with its head down the stranger studied the bland, gray rock as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. He knows it has not noticed anything out of the ordinary, and that is to be the stranger's downfall; it's blatant lack of observation.

The rocks groan and give way, scraping down the mountain side in a flurry of dust and debris, burying the stranger with the creamy fur beneath an immovable pile of stone. A befitting grave for the traitor responsible for the murder of an heir, the one that had done more than meddle in the affairs of her Queen.

He slits the throat of a wailing green-eyed tom. Witnesses are bad luck after all.


	4. Knead

_кηєαd_

You have to save her, she can't die like this!"

"I am doing all I can. There's only so much healing herbs will do, after that it's up to her whether she stays or whether she goes."

"Goes where, Fishleap? Where will she go? There's nothing after this!"

"Have faith, Rainpatch. Knead gently, no need to give her bruises."

"Faith in what?"

"That your kneading will help her lungs, keep her calm, let her know that she is not alone."


	5. Flower

ƒℓσωєя

The delicate one. That's who she is, and she knows that, but she doesn't like that. There is no longer time for delicacy, to be described as a weak little flower, because it is no longer a compliment or something anyone wants to be known as. It is a hidden insult, barbed with the unspoken words: 'weak little flower; so soon will you die.' She knows she will soon die, the voice tells her everyday - and she is afraid, so very afraid, the weakness unable to be stopped, her death inevitable.

_'Weak little flower; so soon will you die.'_


	6. Shield

_ѕнιєℓd_

"I'll protect you from all the scary things." Eaglestrike says it because he means it, because he wants her to survive, to see the sun rise brightly and the moon shine white.

"I-I can protect myself." Littleflame protests because she hates being the weak one, the one everyone looks out for and protects.

They care enough to want to protect her, but not enough to ask her if she wants to be.


	7. Shiver

_ѕнινєя_

It isn't a wail, or a scream, or even a howl that ripples through her at the sight of the tiny, limp body bleeding out over the cold, gray stone. It's a shiver, strong enough to make her spine ache, that leaves her feeling hollow deep inside. To feel empty is something she has never experienced before, the painful throbbing in her heart so strange she thinks she might be injured within.

Crimson leaves, abandoning the corpse. The path is familiar beneath her paws, swooping and curving to deposit her in the scraggly mountain forest she'd walked so many times with him. Her mind does not linger on those moments now, far too focused on the goal at paw.

Standing silently by the grave so meticulously looked after by none other than herself she allows a single moment of weakness, a single tear which has her muse if she is broken. "You wouldn't have done this to me, would you?"

The question remains unanswered.


	8. Motivate

_мσтιναтє_

The red moon sits oppressively in the sky, watching the brooding tom with a keen eye. It knows what he does not, it sees what he cannot - see's the white-patched figure mount the small rise before he does. He knows it is Rainpatch, but he doesn't say a word. Does the WaveClanner think he has failed as well?

Rainpatch only stretches his neck to brush muzzles with the reddish tom. "I don't think you've failed."

It is like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

* * *

_an: away sails the ragle ship. _


	9. Ablaze

_αвℓαzє_

"Run! Get to WaveClan's territory, head for the ocean!" she barks orders despite the burning in her throat, the scratching of smoke as it pours into her lungs. Her Clan needs her, she's their self-appointed leader.

She puts their safety before her own. It ends with her death, bathed in the flames of a forest ablaze - CedarClan's deputy now a forgotten, charred corpse.


	10. Icy

_ι¢у_

Icepetal is cold, her entire demeanor like the slicing wind of leaf bare, the wind that cuts through skin to chill bone. That's how she likes the world to see her, unapproachable and mean spirited, everything a rogue should be. He knows that, deep down, but can't see it anymore. She's not icy like leaf-bare. She's warm like greenleaf.

* * *

_an: all hail the mighty wice ship. _


	11. Voyage

_νσуαgє_

Eaglestrike misses the hot sand beneath his paws, Rainpatch can see that very clearly. He knows the ache is similar to the one he feels whenever he thinks about the ocean, the way it crashed into the cliffs beneath the camp back home.

"We'll come home," he says to the PhoenixClanner one evening. They are hidden away on the island, resting in the shadows.

"How can you be sure?" Eaglestrike replies.

Rainpatch smiles, though he doesn't know that the smile warms Eaglestrike's heart. "Because I want to come home. So I will. Simple as that."


	12. Bolt

_вσℓт_

She writhes under the claws peeling back layers of her skin, dragging painfully slow, letting the blood flow. He whispers cruel words in her ear, telling her how worthless she is, how useless she is, how painfully he plans on killing her. _"Tornheart,"_ he murmurs one day, _"why don't you fight? Giving up so soon? How unlike you. Go on,"_ his grip loosens,_ "have a go."_ And she does, scrambling for the light she's tried desperately to crawl towards. She doesn't make it even half way before he drags her back, laughing loudly.


	13. Hairy

нαιяу

"No!" Jinx howls as the Chosen plunge into the roaring water, current carrying them towards the thundering waterfall. She can practically feel Crimson's anger scorching her fur already. There is no way she's returning empty-pawed again. Her paws carry her to the edge of the cliff, dizzying drop giving her an ill feeling in her stomach. Fully prepared to jump into the water after them it is only a warm body that stops her.

"It's not worth your life," Raz informs her, gently guiding her back to safety. It's something he will not be forgetting anytime soon; a hairy experience.


	14. Slow

_ѕℓσω_

She doesn't recognize the feeling at first, just passes off the fluttering feeling whenever he says her name as a reaction to his power. The feeling only grows the more time she spends with him, it's hard not to be around him, he's wormed his way deep into her plans, so deep she swears he knows more than she does. A sneaking suspicion begins to creep upon her that what she feels when he is around isn't something normal. She wants to ask someone about it, but she doesn't trust anyone. Because she is Crimson, and she knows how dangerous this feeling is for her.


	15. Borrow

_вσяяσω_

"W-who are you?" the silver tabby is shaking like a leaf, unlike the darker tabby hissing and spitting with amber eyes alight with fury. Crimson orders her soldiers to pin the spitting tabby with a flick of her tail, and then gestures to the kits mewling in the nest.

"Are they yours?"

The silver tabby nods, and Crimson grins. "I don't suppose they'll mind me borrowing you for a short time, Neena?"


	16. Cry

_¢яу_

She sits out in the storm, white fur plastered messily to her side. There's an aching hole in her chest, once filled by a certain tomcat, now gapingingly empty. It hurts, she realises, to have lost something so important, something she hadn't known was even that special. She gasps. Why? Why him? Her bitter humor returns, she'd warned him what happens to those she gets close to, and he hadn't listened.

Icepetal sits out in the storm, feeling water run down her cheeks, choosing not to notice that it isn't rain.


	17. Stone

_ѕтσηє_

"You say Crimson is turning her army towards the city?" the shadow-encased she-cat rumbles thoughtfully.

Jinx nods, watching her dark ally mull over the information. "She keeps saying she has some hidden plan, something else she's going to use against the city cats. You remember what I said about the city being split in two?" The other cat nods, "well I think Crimson might be planning to pit one against the other, somehow. But…" she glances uneasily at the yawning cave mouth.

"What? Spit it out."

"Titan has expressed interest in siding with Crimson, but only through his son, Arrow. Frozengaze's been dropping hints for days about a mateship."

The other cat scoffs, "she won't use you, you're far too important."

When Jinx sneaks in to visit the next day the shadow cat is gone, only a puddle of blood left, and a deep claw mark gouged in the stone.


	18. Robin

_яσвιη_

He catches the faintest sight of bloodied fangs and sky-coloured eyes before the pain in his throat snatches his attention. There is so much he wants to say but with his lifeblood gushing into the mouth of his attacker he finds it hard to get out even one word. White dots swimming on his eyelids herald his departure, and arrival, only to depart again. He is Robinfrost, thrown from the afterlife without even a chance to look at it.


	19. Familiar

_ƒαмιℓιαя_

These sorts of dreams have haunted Willowclaw every night since he could walk. He hasn't told anyone about them, and they don't scare him anymore - he just wishes they'd stop. There's something about witnessing the death of four strangers that unsettles him, watching their lifeblood soak into the ground gives him shivers. But...seeing his own death, that's something entirely different. One of the four, he unwilling admits, has snagged his heart.

Gatherings always make him uncomfortable, so many cats crushed into one space. One little comment and the whole place could explode into battle. He swallows and keeps to himself, stares up at giant oak where the leaders are sitting. Ignoring everyone else is easy until a flash of white fur catches his eye, his head moving in that direction before he can stop it.

It feels like all the air just vanishes from his lungs in one gust. Her fur is white, so very white, and her tail is brown, as is her face. Long and perfect, it's her, she's right there. He rises, taking a step towards this stranger he knows so well.

But then she turns her head slightly. Her eyes are yellow. _It's not her. It's not her. It's not her. It's_ not_ her!_ He is angry, so very angry; and he hates her, this _demon_ that haunts his dreams every night - hates her because of how madly in love with her he is.

* * *

_an: wice gives me life. tbh i'm like terrible at drabbles. oop. _


	20. Serious

_ѕєяισυѕ_

"Catch!" Rainpatch tosses the mouse at Willowclaw, knowing that the tom can't catch to save his life. He's right, and the mouse hits the tabby square in the face with a satisfying thud. Laughing, Rainpatch spins and dashes away.

"Get back here!" Willowclaw roars. "I'm going to stuff this down your throat!"

Rainpatch jerks awake. The thunder still rumbles all around him and the rain still soaks the ground. He squeezes his eyes closed, holding back the sadness he feels inside. Who will he throw prey at now?

* * *

_an: rainbby misses his target ;-;_


	21. Grasshopper

_gяαѕѕнσρρєя_

The little kit giggles as she squeezes through the hole under the fence, waving her tail excitedly when the scents of the forest reach her nose. She decides that the air smells sweeter out here, it's doesn't stink like the city air. Remembering her promise she did not stray far from the fence, playing in the grass all the while keeping an eye on her way home.

A silver tabby head sticks through it when the kit is in the process of rolling a funny looking insect over with her paw, it's stick-like legs flailing pathetically. "Jinx, time to come home. Your father will be coming back soon."

Jinx trots eagerly after her mother with the insect clamped firmly in her jaws. She knows her father will be proud of her catch. The den is dark, but warm, her siblings throwing a ball of moss around. Her mother sits just inside with her eyes on the ally entrance. Jinx doesn't see her stiffen, only feels the sudden pressure on her back as the tabby shoves them all towards the back of the den.

It's hard to see over the heads of her siblings, Jinx has always been the smaller one, so she shoves her way to the front, curiosity outweighing the feeling of dread. She wants to know why her mother is yowling. "What have you done, Apollo!?" her mother is shouting. A screech of agony follows a thud, Jinx is really curious now.

She sees dark fur and grins around the insect still in her mouth. _Father's back!_ Throwing caution to the wind she leaps out of the den, falling victim to a sudden strike to the face that leaves her reeling, pain burning like a fire across her eye. "Mother!" she wails, screaming at the blood she can see gurgling from her father's open mouth.

A stranger hovers above her father and she moves quicker than lightning, scooping Jinx up in her mouth. "Put her down!" her mother demands.

"I'm going to kill you, Ivypool."

Jinx doesn't feel the pain, just slips gratefully into darkness, the grasshopper she wanted to show her father falling from her limp mouth.

* * *

_an: does this even make sense. _


	22. Advice

_αdνι¢є_

"Just talk to her," Icepaw grins at the warrior. He just shakes his head.

"You know it's not that easy!"

Icepaw rolls her eyes, "you're such a kit sometimes, Lightningfall. She isn't going to bite your head off! Besides, a charming tom like you, she'll be falling over her own paws just to get your attention."

"Then why hasn't she been doing that already?" Lightningfall grumbled.

"Do you want her to be your mate or not?" Icepaw arches a brow. "Just don't fall over or bite your tongue when you're talking to her. That could be bad. Actually, while we're on the subject of things not to do, don't be you. You suck."

His laugh is fake. "Gee, thanks."


	23. Risk

_яιѕк_

White daises drown in red, his blood streaming, swirling, leaving his heaving body in a silent torrent, soaking the flowers once coloured an impossible white, now darkened to a startling scarlet. He wrenches his head back, choked gasp spitting red at her. His eyes, a clash of hatred and hurt, meet hers and she almost flinches at the intensity within. It hurts a little, to think that he truly cared for her: a stranger of which he knew nothing about, one that had arrived in the chaos of a vicious squall.

She lifts a paw to apply what she assumed would be a gentle touch to his shoulder, only to yank it back, treating the blood stained on her paw like a tick, removing it without a second thought. It is always risky getting this close to her targets. Feelings get muddled. But one is dead, another on the brink, and the remaining will fall soon. Besides, she's kind of enjoyed the attention.

It will be three moons before Apollo realises that every action has an equal reaction. She has taken life for far too long, and it will be her turn to give life.

* * *

_an: au in which Apollo kills Eaglestrike, and then has his kits. nice. epollo all the way. _


	24. Twist

_тωιѕт_

"Do you think you stand over me!?" Crimson snarls, paws pressed against Frozengaze's throat. His eyes bug out of his skull, a wheezing sound emanating from his open jaw. He scrabbles desperately at her paws but she won't budge. Today she takes her kingdom _back _into her own paws. Today she seizes the world, and plunges it into darkness.

"I will _always_ stand over you," he gasps out.

Crimson releases his throat, snakes her paws to grab at his head, and _twists_, relishing the pained growl and then snap that ring out, echoing down the empty tunnel. Frozengaze slumps into a crumpled heap, neck snapped, eyes lifeless. "Bastard," she spits.

* * *

_an: everyone hates frozen. _


	25. Fluid

_ƒℓυιd_

He gently nudges his fallen comrade, shifting dark tabby fur. "Come on, we haven't finished yet, we haven't gotten home yet." It is not a worded answer he gets but a sickly gurgling sound accompanied by a splatter of blood against his cheek, but he doesn't move it away from the other's face.

Rainpatch doesn't want to look at the grotesque wound puncturing the tabby's belly, doesn't want to see the contents of the tabby's stomach mixed in the the blood gushing from the gaping hole. There's another gash stretching the length of the tom's throat. How he isn't dead yet Rainpatch will never know.

As the tabby's eyes lose their light and his breathing ceases altogether, Rainpatch presses his forehead against the other's. "Please don't go. I need you, Willowclaw."

* * *

_an: ahaha ;-; _


	26. Moony

_мσσηу_

"I think you're nuts," Leo pouts, "who wants to leave the city for something like..that?" He jerks his head towards the evergrowing pile of bodies, both old and fresh, sitting on the verge of the forest.

Jasper just snorts softly, "you wouldn't understand, little brother. You don't yearn for a life outside the city like I do."

"Mother's going to be pissed," the gold tabby is grinning mischeviously.

"Don't you dare, and don't use language like that! Mother will have your tail," Jasper exclaims.

Leo just giggles and pushes his head against Jasper's shoulder, rubbing his cheek against it. "I think you're kinda brave too, even if you are nuts. Joining an army's dangerous."

"The danger will be worth it. Who knows? I might even find my soulmate out there," Jasper tosses a forepaw over Leo's shoulder and hauls the younger tabby closer. "I'll bring her back to meet you once the war's over, I promise."

Twelve moons pass, and Leo knows his big brother is never coming home.


	27. Pine

_ριηє_

Pinekit totters confidently away from camp, fur bristling with the adrenaline received from sneaking out of camp. He grins widely. The other kits were too scared to come with him, they thought he was stupid for leaving the safety of the camp. He'd show them! SnowClan's territory is safe, he will be fine as long as he stays inside it.

He is five moons old, only one moon away from being an apprentice; the thought excites him, being an apprentice is one step closer to being a warrior, and once he's a warrior he can chase down every soldier that dares step one foot inside SnowClan's borders. It'll be his way of avenging his parents, little Pinekit decides.

As he crosses from prairie into forest, enjoying the feeling of cool shade on his pelt, he nearly falls into a pile of snow, stepping back whiskers away from it to stare at the pile of cold with a furrowed brow. Leaf-bare ended ages ago. Little Pinekit wonders if he might meet that exiled she-cat Aspenthorn keeps warning the Clan about. Ice...Ice something, he can't quite remember her name, but he remembers that she's been missing for longer than he's been born.

"Aren't you a little young to be out by yourself?" Pine flinches at the sound of a hoarse, rasping voice addressing him from the shadows.

The blood in his veins freezes, his heart giving way, he can feel the frail beats of it as he takes a gasping breath not knowing that it will be his last.

* * *

_an: swyfte has a kit called Pinekit for her Pine drabble too. we're so insync. though, she didn't kill hers. oop. _


	28. Lethal

_ℓєтнαℓ_

She slinks through the wide tunnel, head down, pressed against on all sides by guards Her Majesty has decided are strong enough and trusted enough to drag her from the prison tombs to the throne room where she will no doubt be forced down to her knees and be made to beg for her life. But she won't. She refuses to do something as trivial as begging for a life that is no longer worth another day. The tattered feline has long since given up all shreds of hope, she is a hollow shell, nothing more.

"Is that her?" the snobby tone can only belong to Her Majesty's stuck-up firstborn; her only surviving heir after Jinx offed Dark. She grins, ignoring the hisses and growls from those already in the throne room as she's pushed into it, Jinx had done just as they'd planned, thought she'd ended up dead because of it. Rockslide, she nearly snorts, such a pathetic excuse for murder. She would miss Jinx, the feline decided, for the cream she-cat had been just as messed up as her.

"Yes," Her Majesty is talking, "bring her here."

There is a pattering of little paws the feline hears over the insults being howled at her, she feels a little figure wrap its way around her paws, tripping her up. Looking down she meets the already-cruel gaze of Shade; three moons old and already sporting Frozengaze's scowl. She curls her lip at him, which turns into a malicious grin practically dripping with nasty intentions, and she sees the little kit's face drop. This is for you, Jinx, the feline lunges, jaws snapping shut around Shade's puny neck. Bones crunch under her teeth, the kit's echoing scream cutting off, and her eyes are on Her Majesty the entire time.

Sharp claws rip through her shoulder, forces her down, but she refuses to take her eyes of those blood-coloured orbs staring at her. They are empty, absolutely empty, lifeless. She can practically see Her Majesty's heart breaking. "Kill me," the feline whispers the taunt but she knows the dark-furred leader will hear her, "you know you want to."

"You want death, and I refuse to give you what you want," Her Majesty's voice is cracking as she speaks. "Send her away, to the city; Titan's son can have her."

"I have broken you!" the feline cackles, seeing the way Her Majesty's posture slumps as she turns away, "How does it feel to finally be alone!? Do you feel powerful? Is this what you wanted !?"

There is a moment when enemy stares at enemy. "Perhaps once, but not anymore." Then Her Majesty is gone, swept away by the tide of furious followers baying for blood.

* * *

_an: everything in here happened in between cts chapters. shade is dead, dark is dead, jinx is dead, raz is dead. so many deaths. _


	29. Hapless

_нαρℓєѕѕ_

"Don't go too far!" Shiverstar warns her excited kits, smiling as they scamper over fallen leaves, little paws crunching the fragile things.

Ravenflight laughs softly, "they'll be fine, we're right behind them."

_This feels right_, Shiverstar smiles. In the blink of an eye her perfect little world is uprooted, tossed to the whims of a violent wind. Ravenflight is dead; gutted. Fernkit's spine is snapped into an almost perfect angle. Reedkit won't be seeing or smelling or eating through his shattered head anymore. Hailkit's breathing rattles through punctured lungs, blood pooling from the place where the sharp branch entered his soft body.

Third time is _not_ the charm.


	30. Aware

_αωαяє_

Rainkit dabs at the water lapping against the warm sand, squealing when a small wave splashes droplets at him.

A warrior carves through the water, strong paws pulling him easily through the still liquid. He dives under the surface, appearing moments later with a fish clasped tightly in his jaws.

Rainkit gasps and knows, in that moment, what he wants to be: a great warrior.


	31. Devilish

_∂єνιℓιѕн_

When he tilts up her chin to gain access to her throat he admires the supple muscle running taut from neck to shoulder. There's a scar, long since faded to a pale pink, curving up her jawline; another peeks out at him from behind her ear. Blank blue eyes watch his every move, _submit_ to his every demand, yet he finds himself craving the spark he'd seen earlier, the ferocious light only a vicious killer can acquire.

This she-cat is like him, but at the same time she is not. She has loyalty for her friends whereas he has never had friends to call his own, never had anyone he felt the need to protect. Beneath his skin he can feel his ancient heart thudding in a dangerous rhythm.

So when he asks her and she says no he feels strangely unhinged.

_"Be mine, Icepetal."_

* * *

_an: what's this? another pairing? say hello to frice (frozengaze/icepetal). hate/angst pairings ftw. _


	32. Dash

∂αѕн

Rainpatch doesn't go with Icepetal and Tornheart when they appear in WaveClan territory; instead he chases them off, nipping at their ankles until they've crossed the border into CedarClan territory. He makes a snarky comment, not that they hear it, and returns to the beach, plunging into the cool waves of the open ocean. It's tame today, only a slight current tugging at his fur.

Gulls shriek from the sky above him, and from their nests on the cliffs. They soar gracefully on the strong winds, beating white wings to keep afloat. He tilts his head back to watch them, wistfully wondering what it would be like to fly.

When sunhigh rolls around he decides he's done enough swimming, scooping up the fat fish he'd managed to nab. His paws sink into the hot sand, the grit clinging to his damp fur. He closes his eyes against the sudden gusts of winds blasting sand into his face.

The gulls shrieking has grown louder, more frantic. Rainpatch twitches an ear, trotting up the hidden incline curving its way up to higher ground. "Must be the season for making baby birds," he says with a grin.

A howl cuts through the shrieking at the same time the scent of soldiers hits his nose. The fish slaps to the ground, Rainpatch taking off in the direction of camp. In his head he repeats "no" over and over. "No. No. No. No. They aren't here. They can't be here. We haven't done anything wrong. No. No. No. NO!"

He shoves his way through the gorse barrier, claws scraping against rock, blinking stupidly at the scene he's stumbled into. Heathersky is being forced to her knees, head pushed to the side to reveal her throat. Around her are corpses gushing so much blood, the Clan, his Clan, attacked, slain, left to rot. A soldier brings his claws to kiss Heathersky's throat and she visibly swallows, the whites of her eyes showing her fear.

She looks up, whispers his name, but Rainpatch is already running to her. The soldier flicks his paw. Rainpatch is too slow. If only he'd realised earlier that the shrieking gulls weren't gulls at all.


	33. Glorious

gℓσяισυѕ

This is it, the moment she's been waiting for. Her quarry blunders blindly through the foliage beneath her vantage point, stench of fear rolling off it in thick waves. Like a snake she slides along the branch till she reaches the perfect height, the perfect angle, the perfect place. Everything in this game has to be perfect, otherwise she'll lose, and she can't lose. Losing means death. Death means no glory.

Opening her mouth to drink in the foul fear scent she decides that she has done enough waiting, time to secure her victory. She drops silently and perfectly, landing on the shoulders of her prey like it had been as easy as spearing a leaf. His throat gushes a river of red before he even has the chance to retaliate.

_Like a mouse_, she thinks, stretching down to strip away a hunk of flesh,_ just like a mouse._ The winner of the Games has a very refined taste.


	34. Melt

мєℓт

"I-I think," she's gasping for breath, forcing out words she doesn't have the energy to say, and he's just staring down at her like she's his whole world. She is, he's discovered after a series of incidents, his whole world. "I t-think I would hav-ve liked to have k-known you better."

His heart does this thing where it clenches painfully, nearly forcing him down onto his knees, and he hates it, hates that someone else is causing him such pain. But looking down into her clouding gaze he finds that he can't hate her. "You know me well enough."

The sigh that bubbles between her lips hitches, "I don't. I d-don't know a thing. Yet I fell i-in love with you a-anyway."

_No_. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead against hers. Their breath mingles, his harsh, hers weak. He thinks he sees a drop of water roll down her face. "You'll r-remember m-me, won't you?" she murmurs, then sags. He swallows the wail of grief he wants to let loose.

"Forever."

He is Frozengaze, cursed to lose everything he loves. She was Icepetal, the mortal that melted him.

* * *

_an: join swyfte and i in frice hell. _


	35. One Bad Apple

σηє вα∂ αρρℓє

They were perfect, Sageleaf admired her newborns with a gaze that could only be described as motherly. It felt so natural to be wrapped around the tiny creatures, to feel more then hear their quiet, content purrs. Two were white, one with soft, silver tabby markings, the other with orange splashes. Like her, like their mother. Maybe one of them, or even both, might have their father's eyes. "Palekit. Brightkit."

But it was the third, the smaller kit, the odd kit, that worried Sageleaf. The little she-kit didn't look like she belonged in the litter; she didn't take after either parent. Black fur marred with faint, marbled tabby markings, and flecks of red that looked like scattered drops of blood. Sageleaf swallowed. There was something that unsettled her about the third kit. "Tornkit."

Nothing could have prepared Sageleaf to see that third kit destroy the Clans in one fell swoop.


	36. Lady and the Tramp

ℓα∂у αη∂ тнє тяαмρ

She is delicate and refined, not a hair out of place, all sleek angles and pretty features. Her eyes are the sky, they don't just look like it, they are it. Two pieces of the sky stuck in her skull. When she smiles he feels at a loss, all weak-kneed and tongue-tied, and when she says his name he feels like he could conquer the world.

He is clumsy and a mess, pelt tangled and muddied, paws constantly tripping him up, a silly fool with a strange need to make others laugh. His eyes he think are plain, an ordinary green that doesn't really stick out. He knows his limbs are gangly and long, and that he isn't very strong or fast or smart. He isn't anything really. But, by the stars, does he feel on top of the world when he makes her laugh.

"Would you do me the honour of becoming my mate, Heathersky?" he mumbles to her one day, using big words in an attempt to woo her.

She smiles and it reaches well into her eyes. "Ask me like you would."

Confused he squeaks out, "be my mate?"

"Yes, Rainpatch, I will," she purrs.


	37. Noise

ησιѕє

The cracking of a frozen tomb breaking open echoes down the empty halls, rebounding off bleak walls. Soft sighs, deep breaths, hoarse murmurs. Clicking ice, creaking stone, hissing wind. Prisoners no longer. Shattering, roaring, grating. Freedom so close. Whispers, mutters, hisses, snarls. A final quest to complete. Laughing, planning, taunting. _"Hello, Clans." _


	38. Cold-Blooded

_¢σℓd-вℓσσdєd_

"I have a task for you, Apollo."

"Tell me then, Miraz."

"Kill Titan's mate."

"Is that all?"

"Steal his youngest daughter."

"It will be done."

A puddle of blood, spreading, spreading, sliding down furrows in the stone, slipping into the shadows. A small kit with mouth wide open, staring, not feeling the slight tug, just watching her world fade.


	39. Kneel

_кηєєℓ_

There's pressure against the back of her head, forcing her to the ground. It's painful. Her muzzle is shoved uncomfortably against the dirt, little stones digging in. But, she's not dead. She doesn't understand why she isn't dead. Abandoning Crimson at the river was supposed to be the final act, the final hurt that destroyed their connection. Yet, she's not dead.

"You think you can just run away from what you are?" Crimson murmurs in her ear. "Running won't change a thing. Why won't you just stay? You _belong_."

"I'm _not _like you!" Tornheart spat into the dirt.

"Yet here you are, kneeling before me, where you belong. Welcome home."


	40. Password

_ραѕѕωσяd_

"You can't come in, Ailas!" Pandora giggles, pushing at the tabby kit trying to get into the den.

"Why not?" Ailas whines. He struggles against his sister's bulkier shape.

She rolls her eyes, "you haven't said the password, duh."

"There's never been a password?"

"Well there is now. Go on, it's super easy, I made you say it yesterday."

Ailas groans. He knows _just _what Pandora wants him to say. Refusing to look at her he mumbles, "Pandora is the better fighter."

"Correct!"

Four moons later Ailas thinks of that moment whilst standing over her mangled corpse.


	41. Sharp

_ѕнαяρ_

He wasn't made to fight wars, it's not his way, it's not who he _is_. Rainpatch doesn't slit throats, he makes jokes. Rainpatch doesn't tear through smiles, he creates them. Yet, that's just what he's doing. He's killing, killing so, so many. It makes him hurt to see the light leaving his enemies eyes, seeing their blood mingle with the mud. They have families, they have homes, just like he does.

Under the leering gazes of those crumbling stone buildings he bats away death, striving to live another day. _For Heathersky, _he says to himself over and over. He has to go home to her, there's so much he has to tell her, so many stories to share with her.

A building shudders, debris falls. Pain spreads from his midsection. There's no words he can think of to describe the feeling of wood piercing his skin, spearing him straight through, anchoring him to the ground.

Rainpatch falls. He's long gone by the time the others find him.


	42. Prize

_ρяιzє_

Sunrise picks up a paw, presses it down silently, creeping forward. The shadows embrace her little form, but they can't smother the bright glow in her eyes. Today she'll do it. Today she'll _finally _catch her first kill.

She sees it twitching a few tail lengths in front of her, tail sweeping across the ground. Pricked ears catch the murmurs her prey makes, tiny little things that sound so defeated. She's asked what her prey talks to herself about but she never gets an answer, only a "it doesn't matter".

Her pounce brings her slapping down on that pesky tail, and she claims it between her paws with a victorious mew. "You got me," her prey smiles softly at her.

"You bet I did," Sunrise draws a paw confidently over an ear, grinning up at her mother.

"A fine hunter you'll make." Crimson pulls the little kit to her belly and rests her head over her, creating a sort of cocoon of warmth.

"I'll catch you the fattest mouse one day," the kit vows.

She doesn't see Crimson's sad smile, only hears the quiet purr of affirmation, "I know you will."


	43. Mystique

_муѕтιqυє_

_**everyone gather round for a show  
****watch as this man disappears as we know**_

He's lost, in the darkness, in the light, in the sun, in the moon, in the stars, in the hope that one day everything will be okay, in the knowledge that it never will . Drowning in this sense of endless agony, a stranger clawing at the fragile threads of his crumbling heart. A facade of stone, of strength and courage, crumbling to reveal the pain within. There are no tears. No sobs. Just near silent gasps, a sign of the chaos ripping him apart from within.

It goes dark, briefly, and he thinks that the sun itself is even hiding its face from the monster he is, but in reality it's just a passing cloud obscuring honey rays. He wonders what the others will think when they see the blood dripping from his open mouth. He thinks of the glint of madness in his stormy eyes, stares at them in the warped reflection. Will they hate him?

"What are you doing!?"

Another falls beneath hooked claws, blood arcing up into the sky, catching the overly warm light of the sun, sparkling in a horrific way. The choked gasps become wheezing laughs. Will they turn on him?

Eaglestrike stares at the sun. It should have stayed dead.

* * *

**an: yep. lyrics by twenty one pilots.**


	44. Destroy

_dєѕтяσу_

"Shiverstar, where are you going? Flarestar is still summoning the Council." She ignores her deputy's hushed whisper in favour of shoving her way through the crowd, eyes trained on the log the other leaders sat so regally upon. The world deserved to know the deceitfulness of this Council, the pure evil that flowed through their veins like a thick poison. Then she could die, only then, when everything had fallen into place.

"_Say no, Shiverstar. Refuse to give yourself to them, just like we practiced." _

_I'm sorry, Nightshade. _

The words spill from her mouth, all the hell she'd been put through, the things the other Clans were never supposed to know. The kits, the lies, the scandals, the murders. All of it. Everything. Nothing remains unsaid. She can see it in their eyes, the destruction of their Gods. It's not enough. She wants to see them destroy each other like they destroyed her.

"I'm going to kill all of you." _Your blood can fill my grave. _"And then I'll let the Council have their way with me." _The finale of a grand play. _"Just like it was planned from the start."

"_Shiverstar, what are you doing!? If you give in you'll let them win!" _

_I can't go on. I'm tired. _


	45. Pick Up the Pace

_ρι¢к υρ тнє ρα¢є_

Willowclaw's bones are weak. His body is heavy. His mind is tired. Each swipe is sluggish. Each bite lacks ferocity. The cries that come from his mouth have long since stopped being victorious crows; they're whimpers, and cracked mewls. Yet still he fights on, places a paw in front of the other and moves. Quicker, quicker, faster, faster. He needs to move, needs to fight, needs to keep going.

He's running purely on instincts, hoping his eyes can pick up the movement of enemies quick enough for his brain to respond, for his body to shift into action. A claw slices through skin, blood hits his face. Another falls. Another rises to meet him.

Rainpatch struggles beside him. For all the times Willowclaw has quietly sneered at the WaveClanner's abilities, he is glad for his presence. He fights better under pressure. He fights like the sea churned up by a storm.

He glances at the white-patched warrior. What would he do without him?

The beam falls, end narrowing to a blunt point. It makes a brief, wet noise before thudding into the ground, swaying slightly. There's no other sound save for Rainpatch's frantic breathing - and the blood that graces the ground.

Willowclaw can't understand why. All he understands is the beam, Rainpatch's heaving sides, the red mixing with the mud. He reaches, and then pulls back. Rainpatch stares at him with white-rimmed eyes, but there's a smile on his face, even if it is a little pained.

"We'll see each other again, Willowclaw."

He dies.

Willowclaw howls.

* * *

_an: au where Willowclaw fights in the final battle. tbh not even sorry. _


	46. Popular

_ρσρυℓαя_

It wasn't that she craved attention, she didn't, she hated attention; it made her skin crawl and set her nerves on edge. But there was something about the way her siblings were respected throughout the Clan, from the youngest kit to the oldest elder, that just did something to her. They were praised for each kill they brought back, congratulated for every soldier they sent tumbling back down to hell. She wasn't.

She didn't get so much as the blink of an eye. Sometimes she wondered if they'd even notice if she died.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't see you there, Littleflame," Thrushfoot laughed and kept walking.

"That's okay." _No one sees me. No one _ever _sees me. _

For a brief moment she's staring into crimson eyes, watching how the dark pupil constricts into a narrow slit. Then it's gone in a breath of wind. Her bitterness grows. Her fate turns dark. Somewhere, hidden away in her mountain, Crimson grins.


	47. Somehow

_ѕσмєнσω_

"The air's clean up here," Raz comments. He lifts his head from Jinx's shoulder just to breathe in a lungful of the crisp mountain air. It doesn't stink of death, or disease, or rotting flesh. It smells of rain in far off clouds, flowers blooming in crevices, and _freedom_; the freedom he knows he will never have if he remains chasing the she-cat curled up in front of him.

Raz looks back down at her, at the peaceful expression he rarely ever sees. He loves the way it removes the constant furrow from between her brows, how it allows her mouth to fall into a relaxed smile, and relaxes all the tension from her weary muscles. He finds that he doesn't mind giving up his freedom to spend the rest of his days by her side.

"I wish we could stay up here forever," Jinx murmurs, rolling onto her back to look up at Raz. She smiles softly, "we could live up here, never go back down."

"You have no idea how much I would love that," he touches her cheek gently with his nose.

She paws at him. "We'll come back up here when we're finished, I promise, and we'll never leave, _never_."

"Somehow," Raz vows, "we'll do it."

They never go back up.


	48. Leaf

_ℓєαƒ_

"Come on, Jinx, we don't have time to be playing!" Annabel calls.

Jinx ignores her in favour of the bright leaves she's found crunch loudly when she lands on them. The sound they make fuels her excitement to the point where she's laughing and spinning and jumping all over the place. When was the last time she laughed that much? Not since the city, not since...not since some stranger killed them all.

A flick, a tumble, and a roll later she's upside down staring up at the tall trees in wonder. She reaches up a paw to blot out the sunset colour of the treetops. Leaves tumble down around her in a rainstorm of reds and gold and browns. The city was never as colourful as the forest.

Behind her a twig snaps. It makes her ears twitch and her body lock up. Everything her mother had taught her comes flooding back. She's on her paws in an instant, crouched low, lips pulled back in a fierce snarl - as fierce as a seven moon kit's snarl can be

What she doesn't expect are the evergreen eyes staring at her from underneath a holly bush, widened in almost comical fear. What she _really _doesn't expect is the tiny gray body attached to the pretty green eyes. "Hello?"

"Please don't hurt me."

"I won't. What's your name?"

"Raz."


	49. Frighten

_ƒяιgнтєη_

"Have you told him yet? Have you told your precious Clan cat what you are? What you promised to do? I don't think you have." Crimson shook her world with those words, because they were all questions she had been ignoring. Apollo had hoped that, if she just forgot about her task, it would go away. She should have known. Nothing about her past ever goes away.

Eaglestrike is looking around his army with uncertain eyes, trying desperately to find this stranger his enemy speaks to. How can she hurt him by stepping forward? How can she destroy everything he'd done for her with one single step? He loves her, deeply and unapologetically, and that is perhaps his biggest mistake. For she is unlovable. She is a siren. She is a curse.

"Step forward," Crimson demands in a voice that is thick with authority, "let your friends see who you truly are."

She is a curse, one that Eaglestrike does not deserve. Apollo steps away from his warmth and refuses to meet his eyes or answer his questioning mew that is both angry and confused. The fear she feels is like nothing she has ever felt before, it sinks deep into her bones and scratches at her heart, a sickening fear that takes her breath away; but this is no time for fear, this is war.

Apollo forgets it. She raises her chin, squares her shoulders, let's murder sit in her eyes, and slides out her claws. This is now. He was then. Apollo forgets Eaglestrike.

She becomes Shiverstar once more.


	50. Full

_ƒυℓℓ_

Crimson's eyes do not stray from her firstborn's body, he is so precious, he is their future, and he is at risk all the time. If the world found out about him he'd be dead within a moon. Heirs of a tyrant could not be allowed to live, she understands that much. Then, looking at him playing with Greta's tail, she finds that she can't see how anyone could kill a kit.

Except her. She's killed kits without giving it a second thought.

A ruckus starts up near the entrance to her throne room, and she swallows. The time has come for another supposed 'friend' to die. For a brief moment she misses Jinx's presence by her side, gushing about how excited she is to see another execution.

Shade vanishes from her sight the moment Tornheart appears, head low, eyes dead. The soldiers by her side shove her without mercy. They don't care for her anymore. Crimson can't find it in herself to grin cruelly at Tornheart's pathetic form.

By the traitor's legs a small gray shape hovers, slinking in and out of her paws just to be a nuisance. It's a normal thing for him to do. Today it would have disastrous consequences. Tornheart strikes like a snake, snapping her jaws shut around Shade's neck, sinking her claws into his fragile sides.

Shade screams and cries, wriggling in Tornheart's vice-like grip. He looks up at Crimson with fear in his frozen eyes, and she can't move quick enough - she can't move at all. She can only stare in horror as blood spurts from his open mouth, floods from his torn skin, gushes from his broken throat. A twist of Tornheart's head, and Shade's neck snaps. His eyes die.

"Kill me," Tornheart whispers, "you know you want to."

Crimson is full of hatred, for Tornheart, for Jinx, for Frozengaze, but she's mostly full of hatred for herself because she knows she's the one that drove Tornheart to kill a kit. Her son's death is ultimately her own fault. It breaks her.


	51. Answer

"Do you ever wonder what's beyond those mountains?" Rainpatch asks one day, curled up on the warm sand watching the waves loll against the shoreline.

Heathersky twitches an ear. "More forests, more cats. It's not a different world out there."

"You're not even a little curious?"

"No, Rainpatch," she laughs. "But I can see you are more than curious."

He grins. "I'd only go out there if you'd come with me. Would you?"

"I'd follow you anywhere."


	52. Remember

It's warm. Though the sun hangs low and the sky is starting to cloud over, he doesn't feel even a chill. The remnants of a mouse sits between his forepaws, forgotten in favour of watching the white-patched tom chase a butterfly through the grass. He leaps and bounds and giggles like a kit with a smile full of sunshine. Willowclaw sighs as he watches Rainpatch. _Unattainable, _he tells himself, _off limits, reserved, taken. _He shifts his attention to the bones, scowling.

There's a thump, and warmth breath rolls over his face. Flinching Willowclaw jerks his head up to meet Rainpatch's sparkling eyes; they are a delightful shade of green, he's decided, bright and warm and _wonderful_. "Come on," Rainpatch purrs, "come play."

"I don't play. I'm not a kit," Willowclaw retorts.

"Yes but," he leans precariously close, cheek brushing cheek, to murmur in Willowclaw's ear, "no one's watching."

Willowclaw eyes him skeptically when Rainpatch moves away. He doesn't go very far, there's probably less than a whisker of air between their noses. _No one's watching._ _No one will know. No one will find out. _He's never been very good at thinking this out. He charges in blindly. There's a long scar on his shoulder that proves it. So when he leans in closer to brush his muzzle against Rainpatch's and lets out a quiet purr it is done without pre-thought. The answering purr that threads from Rainpatch's throat is comforting.

Three or so moons later Willowclaw wakes up in a cold sweat and remembers a spear of wood piercing blue fur.


	53. Nine

The first time it is with a haunting shriek. Her body is splayed out across a slab of thick stone ringed with viciously red roses. A hulking figure leers over her, yellow eyes practically glowing in the gloom. Cruel claws plunge into her chest. They leave behind a yawning chasm and a body with no heart.

The second time it is silent and quick. Around them the forest buzzes with life, healthy and thriving after a season of destruction. He turns to talk to her just to see a gray-pelted feline drop down from a tree and slit her throat. Her life spills from her throat. "That is from Titan." She lived a dark life. Her enemies are many. Today they found her.

The third time he is not even there, he does not even know her. In a battle where the sky clashes red and green he stumbles upon Frozengaze gutting a howling she-cat. Intelligent eyes meet his just as they dim and glaze. He does not remember her afterwards.

The fourth time he is running hard and fast. Stones clatter free from under his paws, clacking against the heated ground as they shift. Through the thick smoke that chokes his eyes he sees them. Lit up by the roaring flames she dangles from the ledge. Her forepaws scrabble desperately at the rock. Her hindlegs hang whiskers from hot flames. He reaches her just in time to see the flames devour her.

The fifth time it is peaceful. Surrounded by his kits he doesn't notice when she closes her eyes with a little sigh and slips off to a place where he cannot go yet.

The sixth time he is a quiet witness. She is tried for crimes against the city, for choosing to work alongside Crimson even if it was just one job. He feels nothing. She tried to kill him, and she tried to kill the other Chosen. That he knows is a crime worthy of death.

The seventh time she is used as a pawn. Crimson discovers the lingering traces love often leaves behind. Controlled like a puppet she drags him to a dark alley, sparking eyes promising a fantastic discovering. Soldiers are waiting. He escapes. She does not; a bloody corpse left to rot.

The eighth time they have grown old. No longer needed by the world they relax peacefully in the shade. Words are not needed, their silence speaks for itself. It is content. She goes first, weathered lungs heaving a final, quiet, _happy _breath.

The ninth time Apollo leaves Eaglestrike in a pool of his own blood, her face stained with it. Her teeth carry chunks of his skin. A mangled throat sends him plummeting. He stays awake long enough to see her fall into Icepetal's clutches and die.


	54. Thaw

Blute doesn't think she'll ever see him again. He had been adamant the day he'd left that they were to live their lives as if they'd never met each other. She knows she will never be able to do that. Not with her kits, _their_ kits. Kaiko has his eyes, and she has her mother's pretty pelt. Erasmus has his everything. They are beautiful. But they will never get to meet their father.

For days a gray cloud has hung over the mountains in the distance. Blute tries to ignore it. She throws herself into taking care of her Tribe. It is not important to her. It will not affect her or her Tribe. Of a nighttime the concern creeps in. He had said one night that he lived within those mountains.

A stranger makes his way into the camp one morning, a broken soul with a broken body. He is welcomed with warmth. Willowclaw falls into Blute with a cracked sob, and when she asks of his home and of the she-cat he had loved so very hard he just shakes his head and cries even harder.

It is not the kind of love she grew up imagining. There are no walks in the evening, no whispered confessions under the moonlight, no grand displays of affection. There is no "I love you". It is nights spent cradling a body that heaves with silent cries. It is days spent watching him stare at the mountains he'd fled from. It is moons of broken voices and flawed hearts.

Until he thaws.

Until a hushed whisper of "thank you" escapes.

Until he looks at his kits and his eyes light up.


	55. Warm

_Warm_

There is no death this time round. There is no demon lurking in the shadows spinning a web of red over a starved world. The Clans do not exist yet they still find each other, drawn by a magic called fate. Under a cloudless sky they lay, warm beside each other, sharing a content silence. Their kits rest after a morning of exploring. They do not know the others. In this life they are not friends or even strangers, they won't be a family this time round. Willowclaw shifts with a quite grumble under her head, and Icepetal smiles.


	56. Minus

_Minus_

Dying was painful. The moment their teeth had broken through her skull a fire had sprung, shooting down her body, burning her blood. She'd known she wouldn't be strong enough, and despite telling herself that she could do it, that she could win, she failed. Perhaps knowing she'd been chosen to save the world had given Littleflame a false belief that she was invincible. She knows now, looking down at _him _and at _her, _that her life was never a given. The world survived. Her friends moved on. She was not needed. Her identity as a Chosen was as replaceable as her life.


	57. Deadpan

_Deadpan_

Shiverstar watches him crumple with a blank expression. It's disappointing that it wasn't by her own paw. His family had already broken beneath her. He was to be next. Still, it is satisfying to be the one his dimming eyes search for among the shrieking. They could have had something, moons ago, before all this happened. But he chose someone else. He left her behind. Now she stands over him, sharp eyes cold and emotionless. Shiverstar tells herself over and over _he doesn't mean anything, you don't love him, he's not worth it. _

"I could never love you," he sputters.

Her heart gives a painful stutter.

She doesn't even blink when she throws him at death with a gaping throat.


	58. Hushed

Everything is eerily quiet when Firestrike finally falls. She ran so far and so hard, threw herself in harm's way to protect other Clan cats. Her body is burnt, blackened, wounded, torn up, but she doesn't let it bother her until it comes to rest in the ash. As a deputy it is her duty to protect her Clan, to protect _all _the Clans should the situation call for it. Today it did. Today the valley burns around her. She settles into the stillness as her body burns. Her last thought is a plea to the world to keep her lost daughter safe.


	59. Rose

Amory's ascent is to be expected. It was whispered the morning he was born. It was his birthright, a gift handed down to him by his forefathers. His bloodline _promised _greatness. Amory did not let them down. He did not stop for anyone. No loss brought him down. No grief made him pause. A heart locked far, _far _away refused them. A mind set on a grand throne urged him onwards, upwards. He is _revered_. A God, some proclaimed. Oh how he loved that title. _A God. _Amory's ascent is a privilege. His fall is marvel to watch.


	60. Grin

It's never something Jinx truly thought would happen. She's learnt to categorise all of Raz's grins, because he's the kind that has so many. There's the one he gives the new recruits when they arrive for their first training session; it's confident and equal parts cocky, with a hint of a careful warning "_I am your leader now"_. The one he gives Crimson are tense, pulled tight, and they speak of just how little he trusts his commander. Maniacal, concerned, teasing, angry, sneering, enraged, upset. He has _so many_, and she knows them _all. _So when he appears beside her one night with a grin she hasn't seen before she's taken by surprise, and then she's astounded. She hadn't believed him the time he'd told her he loved her. But now she does.


	61. Undesirable

In the early moons of his kithood Lucius and Theda had looked upon him with joy, and pride. He was their firstborn, their strongest, their heir; everything they and Crimson had ever wanted. Willow barely notices the change. It doesn't bother him when they begin to spend more and more time away from him and his siblings. It's not strange to think that he spends more time with Crimson than his parents. She's training him to be something special, of course he'd spend more time with her. Willow only notices it when they scramble into the den that evening to find him covered in blood: the hatred shines clear in their wide eyes. Theda screams at him, and her words are toxic. He can't understand why. Wasn't he supposed to follow Crimson's orders?

They blame it on a scrawny gray tom. Then they send Willow away.


	62. Gold

If Sunrise could choose she would pick any other power but the one she had now. Shadows were dark. Shadows were scary. They were always connected with evil. Why couldn't she touch a paw to the ground and have it explode into beautiful gold? The colour of the sun, bright, warm, _safe_. Touch a tree and see it's green leaves grow beautiful. Dip her tail into a stream to see it blossom from blue to warm. It would be a wondrous power to have. A gift, not a burden. But in the end who wants to always turn things to gold? Prey turned solid can't be eaten. Water turned thick can't be drunk. A cat that can't touch anything without killing it is useless. In the end her pretend power is no different from her real one.


	63. Aloof

It's a word she hears often, usually directed at her. She hates hearing it because it's true. But not because she feels above her Clan mates. Not because she believes herself to be more important. Not because her parents are infamous. _It's not like that_, she says over and over. The jokes turn to sneers, the quiet murmurs to loud taunts. She hides inside herself. It's the way she's learned to live now, closed off and far away. They can't get her there. Her mother pretends to understand but she doesn't have time to actually care anymore; she's got a Clan to look after. So when a handsome, rusty coloured tom speaks to _her_ in a voice that is far too soft and far too gentle she falls too quick, a promise on her tongue to follow him wherever.


	64. Wasp

Lightningfall is Lightningpaw - by two days - when Icekit appears. She becomes Icepaw without him really taking any notice. He's heard all about her of course, a rogue kit brought into the Clan along with her siblings because the Code states all kits should be looked after. Not everyone in the Clan likes them. His brother is one, though he is silent about his dislike. They meet face to face in battle training. She eyes him up like a bit of prey, eyes cold, mouthed pulled into a soft frown; she's smaller than him, thinner, kit-fluff still softening the edges of a strong face. He grins smugly. It's a fight he knows he'll win. Icepaw puts him on his back so fast it stings, like a wasp has pricked his skin. His mentor has to bite back laughter.


	65. Fly on the Wall

She didn't mean to spy. Eaglestrike had given her the afternoon off and the cool forest near the basin was far too tempting to ignore. All she'd wanted to do was a little hunting, maybe have a nap in the cool shade, anything to take her mind off what she'd done. Sunrise hadn't really expected the forest to be empty. Birds sometimes nested in the branches, prey for a starved Clan. Through the holes in the brush she spotted them. There was little space between them, their fur brushing gently together, and their heads were pressed lightly against each other. She couldn't hear what they were saying just quiet murmurs of a private conversation. She stayed long enough to see Icepetal raise her head and curl her lip at Willowclaw.


	66. Swan

"You'll be a swan someday," Sageleaf murmurs into Tornkit's fur. She refuses to acknowledge that her daughter's fur is pitch black, that in the sun it takes on a tinge of red akin to blood. It's not Tornkit's fault that her face is a little broad, that her pelt hangs a bit limply that her eyes are a dull green. It's not _really _her fault.

"Why do I need to be a swan?" Tornkit looks genuinely confused.

"Because swans are beautiful and elegant, everything you'll be someday. We can't stay ugly ducklings for all our lives," she murmurs her reply into dark fur.

"Oh…" the word comes out in a defeated tone. Moons go by, the valley plunges into darkness, a red moon rises, and all Tornheart can ever seem to think about is how she has yet to grow into a swan.


	67. Miasma

Ice laughs when she steps into RogueClan's camp after Earth had destroyed it. She had listened to the screams from a little way away, ears pricked, mouth pulled into a wide smile. It was always a pleasant feeling when a plan was successful. The stench of death was putrid, wafting from the pile of bodies in sickly waves. Squinting she spots Kynsia amongst the dead, flesh dangling from bone, mouth open in a final wail. Blood seeps from the pile drowning the ones on the bottom in deep red. Her grin grows.

"Delightful," she crowed, "absolutely delightful." Cold spreads from her paws settling over the dead. "Now let this be a reminder to any returning Clan cats."


	68. Sink

The sky's dark, the running water even more so. It slides quietly by, a seemingly safe expanse of cool mountain water. Amory knows different. He knows that, just a little further downstream, there's a waterfall armed with a mouthful of sharp rocks at the bottom. Everyone knows about it, the Clans use it to drink from if water is scarce. No one knows that it plays a bigger part in a grand scheme. The ghosts that linger along the bank are there because of him. He doesn't need to settle his nerves, he never had to. He just walks up to the edge and drops the bundle in, waiting till it has been dragged under before he retreats.


	69. Snow

If anyone had asked Eaglepaw would have told them that he loved his family. He got on well with his sisters though they had drifted apart a little. His mother was sweet and she told him he loved him often. His father was a strong warrior covered in battle scars with eyes like a hawk. A name like Sparrowclaw was too meek for him.

On a freezing day when snow had invaded PhoenixClan's borders Eaglepaw found himself trudging through it. He had to show them. He had to make sure they all knew that he was strong too. All he had to do was catch a rabbit to feed the Clan. He stumbles mid-hunt and the rabbit escapes. His father looms over him with a scowl. Scarlet stains the snow.


	70. Polite

"Chin up. Eyes forward. Paws neat. Back straight. Tail curved a little," the elder instructs. He is meticulous and Marah hates him. If her posture falters she gets a nip to the rump. If her posture is perfect she gets a snort and a "you can do better". Once he's pleased he makes her hold the position until her back feels like it's about to snap in two. This is not what she had expected when deciding to train in healing. "A healer must look the part and speak with a gentle tone."

"So I can't yell at anyone?" Marah frowns.

Another nip to her rump. "No. Healers are the backbone of the group. We must hold ourselves with pride. Politeness, Marah, goes a long way."

"Yeah sure, whatever you say."


	71. Dream

He likes the ones where she shows up glowing ethereally, eyes bright and smiling. Her voice is always soft, smooth - like honey - and she wraps herself around him like she used to. In those ones he is filled to the brim with happiness. In those ones he finds himself feeling so very content, protected by the feel of her fur and the thud of her heart.

He hates the ones where she show up like he last saw her; throat a bloody mess, red dribbling out from between her lips. Her voice is garbled and shaky, and she shouts at him. "_LOOK AT ME LOOK WHAT YOU DID I AM DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU YOU ARE A MONSTER." _

All he wants is for Pandora to breathe once more. But she never will, and it is because of him.


	72. Eyes

The mask had been specially designed by her request, the design so elegantly sketched out it left no room for error. She was nothing if not precise. Black all over, snug but comfortable, a slit that left only her eyes visible. With it, and the rest of her dark outfit, she was a shadow. She moves like one too, all liquid grace as she shifts smoothly along the balcony. Her target moves beneath her, jumper hood pulled up over his head. _Subtle. _

Moving over rooftops and balconies she waits till he turns into an empty street then leaps. His shoulders catch her weight. Her knife glides across his throat. He is dead before he hits the cold ground. A muffled shout of surprise catches her attention and she spins on her heel to meet a pair of terrified amber eyes. In the space of a heartbeat she has memorised his features. Dark, long hair, a ring in his nose, pale skin, a university bag slipping from a shoulder, tall, broad shoulders.

They stare at each other, hunter and accidental witness, until laughter and loud footsteps sound nearby. Harper spares her target a final glance before she is scaling the nearest building, disappearing into the night. She does not forget her witness. He will meet his end shortly.

* * *

_hmu with some sweet human wice au. _


	73. Future

In her mind she grows up alongside her sister. They are happy, strong, living with their family group, travelling the world. They find mates, have kits, and grow old together. Each morning they'd wake up to see the sun rise. Each evening they'd stop to watch it set. Their lives would be filled with soft memories and brilliant stories.

In reality they are born this world's first Shadowstalker and Elemental, fated to be enemies for as long as they live. Her sister's pelt turns gold whilst hers turns a cold white. Their powers turn them bitter to each other, the innate instinct to kill the other stronger than any blood ties. It drives them apart, forces their family to split, sends them running far from each other.

When they meet again it is in a terrifying clash of unearthly powers that leaves one dead and the other broken.


	74. Blizzard

"We can't leave them alone up there. Eventually that Shadowstalker is going to learn how powerful she is and then we won't stand a chance against her," Earth grumbled. He still couldn't get the taste of those shadows out of his mouth.

"They have a wielder and a Shadowstalker, and the rest of them might be mortal but they aren't weak," Ice hissed. "Going back into that basin would be suicide. You saw what the wielder did to Wind. We have to think of something else."

"How about we just freeze them?" Wind's voice was quiet yet firm. A tiny smirk tugged at her muzzle. "They can't fight a blizzard."


	75. Ring a Bell?

Wrenfeather stands over him with a scowl tearing apart her pretty face. She'd caught him alone out on one of the mountain pathways. A little ways off a river gurgles. In the distance a hawk shrieks. He struggles against her grip but it is firm. Not for the first time he meets her eyes and finds hatred spoiling them. "Are you still angry that I left?" Eaglestrike spits.

"I'm angry that you were born." Her claws dig uncomfortably into his skin. "Say, doesn't this feel familiar to you?"

It's no longer Wrenfeather standing over him. It's Sparrowclaw and his claws aren't just uncomfortable, they are painful.


	76. Mend

It hurts to heal others. You see the process of healing another's wound involves stripping them of their pain, and that pain can't just float around, it has to be burnt off. So it is transferred to her own body to die away. Little cuts and bruises aren't a hassle. It's the bigger wounds, the life-threatening ones, that make her see stars. She never mentions it, it' a secret she will take to her grave, because she believes she deserves the pain. It is penance for the hell she put the Clans through by allowing Crimson to use her as a pawn.


	77. Spine

"I am not a patient creature, _cat_," he said quietly. There was a threatening undertone to his voice that, when paired with his burning gaze, made the feline's bones tremble.

They swallowed their fear and answered in a voice that quivered only slightly, "Ja'zahr, I just need a little more time. Our deal will be settled, I just need a little longer."

Ja'zahr's laugh was rough - everything about him was rough. "You believe yourself to be so very brave and mighty, don't you? No more time will be given. I will return with my pack before the full moon rises again. Then we will take what was given to us, what you promised us, Amory."

* * *

_an: ja'zahr has a very thick accent. pick whatever accent you feel like. _


	78. Whimsical

He wandered the world believing he would return home when it was done. Each morning he rose with the sun and told himself he'd see home again soon. The further he got the stronger his belief got. It was something he tried to share with the others. Littleflame was the only one that really listened to him. Her pretty smile was a pleasant sight to see. Rainpatch wanted her to go home and show her Clan how strong she had become. He often sat apart from the others making fantasies of what Heathersky would say when he got home. It's a shame that they stayed just that: fantasies.


	79. Smoke

"I'll always be here, Eaglestrike." Crimson hovers above him. Her smile is wicked, her eyes even more so. He shudders when she drags her paw down his back. It feels a little strange, her paw sort of dips into his body because she's not quite _there_. Her form wavers, dark fur wispy like smoke, as she curls herself to lay in front of him. "When you have no one, when everyone has turned their backs on you, I'll be here, always. _Always. _You can trust me." He knows he shouldn't, but he does.


	80. Bruise

Marah scowls at Sunrise. "You're here again. Why?"

The apprentice holds up her foreleg and grins sheepishly. "I wasn't looking where I was going," she says. "Didn't see the hole till it was too late." A bit of her fur is missing, a shallow scrape turning a faint sheen of red; it mixes with blue and green hues, a dark bruise blossoming.

"I'm starting to think you're hurting yourself on purpose to sneak in here," Marah sighs. She noses her way through the herbs at her paws, picking out the ones she needs. A bunch of cobwebs dangle from a crevice.

Sunrise giggles, "I'd sneak in any way."


	81. Crust

She hates watching them but she has not choice, leaving him would hurt worse. Their kits - _kits_ \- make her heart ache. It could have been her. Eaglestrike could have been happy with her. Instead he tangles himself around an assassin and Littleflame is forced to watch from the stars. When she has enough power she ventures down to the basin.

It's night, and the moon is a claw in the sky. She passes through the willow leaves to find him curled around his family. Her heart burns. Her eyes find Apollo, or Shiverlight as she is now known, and anger surges. Eaglestrike shifts in his sleep and murmurs something. Littleflame flees back to the stars. It feels like someone has plunged a paw into her chest and ripped away the sickly crust of her wound.

"_I love you."_

* * *

an: what even are prompts


	82. Loose Cannon

He looks so proud of his plan. His eyes shine happier than they have in moons. Yet she cannot share in that happiness. Outside she can hear their captors muttering to themselves. Marah swallows her fear; she's too old for things like this.

"What makes you think they'll agree?" she whispers.

"Didn't you see how thin they are?" Amory shoots back, "they need it. We can get it for them. Come on, this is how we survive this, Marah."

She trusts him with her life but this is stretching it. All his life he's treated the fine line between smart and crazy. Now she fears he's fallen onto the wrong side. This plan will kill them, but he doesn't care. He never has


	83. Badger

"What are we doing out here, momma?" He's so tired, paws aching, but he has to be strong. It's his time to prove that he is an asset, or they'll kill him. She looks down at him, a frown on her broad face. Cold, dirt coloured eyes regard him with distaste.

"You're old enough to understand, Amory. Try not to mess it up. You remember what happened to Esra." His momma is not kind. He wishes she was sometimes. "If you screw it up don't come home. Die quietly. A weakling cannot lead our pride."

Then she is picking him up and throwing him out of the shadows. A hulking beast rears up, surprise in its throaty roar. Black and white its fur blurs together. Stunned he doesn't move quick enough. Claws flash, then pain blossoms. Red soaks the side of his face. "_Momma_!" he howls.

She ignores him.


	84. Head Over Heels

She is scowling, eyes full of hate, when he first looks at her. Still, he thinks she's beautiful. In the only way he knows how he throws his affection behind insults and barbed words. He's no good at these things. She hates him. He got them caught. It wasn't a very good first impression. So when he chases her up into that tree he doesn't expect her to even look at him. But she does. She looks and she talks and she sits pressed up against him. Willowclaw should have known he never stood a chance. All she'd done was exist around him and he'd fallen so hard and so fast.


	85. Dud

Visery's face twisted with disgust. "What is this?" he spat, staring up at his father sitting on his throne of bones. "This is an insult, Titan. Crimson cannot be taking us seriously with a gift like this."

She had thought her heart was shattered beyond repair, that it would no longer feel pain, but she had been wrong.

"Hold your tongue, Visery's. I am sure there must have been a mistake. No son of mine will take a mate that looks like that," Titan said, "though now we have to decide what to do with her."

"The only decent thing about her is her reputation for stabbing her friends and family in the back," Visery's cackled.

Titan shrugged. "We can't send her back, so we might as well kill her. No one else will have her."

"I'll take her." She jerked her head to a feline hidden by the bone pile's shadow. He was staring at her. "If Visery's doesn't want her, I'll have her."

"Fine, Arrow. Do whatever you want with her."


	86. Analyse

Raz hauls himself over to the mass of fallen rocks. He leaves a trail of sticky red behind him. His vision's fuzzy, heart thudding slower and slower. It feels like a forest fire's blazing in his stomach. Still, he pushes on, step-by-step, till he can reach out with a forepaw and rest it on Jinx's. Her pretty face lay cracked under stone, body crushed. He coughs up blood. The world tilts around him. "We...we really didn't think this one through very well," he wheezes. Before he dies he wonders if anyone will find their bodies.

* * *

_an: rip to the greatest murder couple in warriors history. _


	87. Immaculate

Wind almost purrs at the sight of the tiny bundles wriggling against Icepetal's belly. She has not witnessed the birth of new life in seasons. The Creator tasked her with destruction, which makes standing over Icepetal protectively strange. She does it anyway. Something deep inside her burns at the sight of the kits. They are amazing, beautiful, perfect, immaculate; flawless. She wants to keep them. Her heart aches. This is what she gave up for a magnificent power. In that moment it doesn't quite seem fair.


	88. Dawn

Golden light spilt over the horizon, soaking into the dark clouds, reclaiming its place in the cold sky. A pink blush settled heavy and low, tinting the gold prettily. Its warmth rolled over the mountain. Eaglestrike felt it nestle among his bones. Wearily he slouched against Willowclaw. The tabby had his head thrown back, letting the rays caress his face. Beneath them despair dissipates, sunlight forging a way through the darkness. It burns a new era into the very sky. At their paws the star-water shines stunningly, catching the light and throwing it back tenfold. A blue sky spreads around the fat sun


	89. Trouble

Leon still remembers the day Soran had fallen into their afterlife, bloodied, face wet with drool and tears, shaking and terrified. He'd been the only one to see the other like that. It was a secret he had kept from the others, the look of utter terror on Soran's face when Leon stood over him. Sure, Soran had a good few inches of height on him, but weak and confused he would not have stood a chance. Leon had only smiled, offered his condolences, and sat down to explain to Soran where he was. They don't talk often now, Soran tends to keep to himself. Sometimes they cross paths; Leon likes the river, Soran does too. Underneath the nastiness Soran is rather gentle. He apologises after their arguments, makes sure he hasn't hurt Leon. Soran looks at him strangely too. It is late one night when Leon realises why that look is so familiar. Cyrith used to look at him that way.

"Ah," Leon mutters to himself, "that is trouble."

* * *

_an: i am a shipping machine._


	90. Aristocat

"Royalty is such a funny word, don't you think Emperor Fire?" Ice leers. She doesn't seem to mind the translucent, ice-like collar adorning her throat. In fact she wears it unnaturally well, makes it look perfect.

Cyrith thinks the throne he has been given is uncomfortable. His collar itches, and digs in uncomfortably. Their followers tell them they aren't collars like slaves wear, but more like crowns. He doesn't like them. "I think it's just a word, Empress Ice, given to those powerful enough to carry it."

It seems that they have dropped themselves into a cult of sorts. He supposes the attention is nice. His food is brought to him, only the finest prey. Slaves are given for nothing more than amusement. Ice enjoys killing hers. Earth teaches his about caring for the world. He's not sure what to do with his. They're a thin, plain-looking silver she-cat, her pelt dull with dust. "Make your one dance, Emperor Fire," Wind commands. "I am bored."

The scorching flames melt the slave's skin from her bones. She dies with a smile, pleased to have served her Emperors.


	91. Lion

Blute retires early from watching over her tribe, easing her way through the tangle of tree roots. In her secluded den scuffles her two precious kits. Erasmus wiggles out of Kaiko's grip with a warbled yowl. There are moss and feather scattered everywhere. She sighs tiredly. "Kits, come, it is time to sleep. Rest those tired eyes of yours."

"But mumma, we aren't tired," Erasmus protests, pouting. He really does look his father.

"Yes you are. I can see your eyelids drooping. Come, now." They settle easily, snuggling in close to her belly, and she curls around them. It is briefly silent.

"What was dad like?" Kaiko interrupts the silence.

Blute purrs. "A lion, little one. Your father was like a lion."


	92. Sunset

They are expected to hang around the throne room till sunset. When the walls catch the first fleeting hints of dying sun, Cyrith escapes. Usually. Today is different. A lady kneels on the cold tile, hair falling loose from her braid, blood smeared across her face and dribbling from a split lip. She angrily rattles the chains curling around her wrists; stares down Atsiya with potent hatred.

"What is this?" Atsiya demands.

"She was with four others. We caught them trying to break into the armory," a soldier offers obediently.

Atsiya arches a sculpted brow. "Where are the four others?"

The same soldier begins to look a little sheepish. "They escaped. We tried to catch them but this one killed any that chased. Gave herself up, she did. Not without a fight thought."

Cyrith stops paying attention to the babbling soldier. He knows they will be struck dead sooner or later. Failure is not tolerated. Instead he observes their prisoner. She's pretty, he supposes, has that ferocious look about her face; seems like the kind to slice throats and ask questions later. The dying sunlight plays out beautifully across her bloodied face.

"Take her to the dungeons," he commands. "We will deal with her in the morning."

The prisoner is hauled to her feet. Her chains clatter loudly. Atsiya rises slowly from her throne, steps purposeful, hand raised. The failure of a soldier freezes solid. Her hand then grips the prisoner's braid and yanks their head back, exposing a long throat. "Your name?" Atsiya murmurs.

"Go to hell," they spit.

* * *

_an: cyrith/icepetal human royalty au anyone? _


	93. Off the Hook

The dungeons are cold and dark. Tiny windows criss-crossed by thick bars let in tiny rivulets of light. Cyrith can only imagine that their newest prisoner is feeling the chill particularly harshly. The tattered remnants of her clothes tell a very stark tale regarding Atsiya's punishment; her majesty was not fond of backchat. Little splatters of bright red dirty the stone floor. Her hands are pulled taut above her head, heavy metal chain hooked to the roof.

"You here to have a go at me too?" Her voice is a whisper, impossibly loud in the silence of the dungeons. It rasps a little, her throat dry. She tilts her head back almost invitingly. "Have a go then. If her majesty couldn't do it what makes you think you can?"

Cyrith had been surprised to discover that Atsiya had gotten nothing out of the prisoner, even after her screams had echoed through the castle. But he has the upper hand here, knows something not even his Queen knows. The gate creaks open loudly. His strides are long and purposeful, they bring him crowding into her space, a hand clasped around her throat.

She looks different. Her hair is darker, body bulkier. The scars are a new addition, three jagged ones that cut across her cheek and split a lip. He's sure there's probably more hidden away under the meager remainders of her clothes. Different, yes, but no less pretty.

The breath catches in her throat when she spies the smirk spanning his face. "Hello, Allana."

* * *

allana = icepetal


	94. Beast

The darkness swallows him. Bit by bit. Day by day. He bruises. He bleeds. He cries. He does nothing but sit and take what is given. Deep, deep inside him something is waking from a long slumber. It stirs slowly, limbs creaking. It's him, but it's also not; something so different it scares him. Late at night, in his dreams, it speaks, honey-sweet voice soothing and sleek.

"Get up, Blackpaw. We aren't finished here." His brother leers over him. In the blackness of his mind his monster holds out a paw. _Take it. Survive._ He does.

"My name is not Blackpaw. It's Soran." Power floods through him, potent and glorious. He will make them see. Darkness pools from his body. He will make them quiver. He will etch his name into their very bones so they will never forget him.

Blood, thick and sticky, washes around his paws, soaks his face, coats his chest, dribbles from his whiskers. The red is striking against his black fur. His monster purrs happily. They are one now.


	95. Dashing

Allana watches him leave through her eyelashes. He's exactly the same as he was fifteen years ago; a pompous prick. Ah, but she hadn't missed the look of relief and hope that had crossed his face when she'd been thrown to the floor in the throne room. The little prince had missed her.

A day passes. Her arms ache and twinge, the sensation spreading slowly to her shoulders. She hadn't meant to get caught. The task had been simple, sneak into the armoury and steal a few swords. What a surprise it had been for six guards to wander round the corner the moment they dropped from a window. Nothing quite compares to the sound of steel singing through the air, slicing through skin.

On the fourth day of her confinement, he returns. Cyrith. He looks no less dashing, striking red coat keeping the chill of the dungeons from him. It's an expensive looking coat, gold trim lining the buttons and collar. The gate shrieks as it is opened. Her stomach answers with a rumbling growl - she hasn't eaten since being captured.

"Are you willing to talk today, Allana?" he asks, tone condescending as usual. "You see our Queen has put me in charge of learning about your tribe. Given that you have lived with them for quite a while I feel like you could help me." He flashes a daring grin and shifts the ruined remains of her thin armour hiding the markings on her chest. "This tattoo I have seen before. On two young tribes-women dragged from the forest."

There's a rune on the palm of his hand. The skin is raised and raw. At her silence he places it over the tattoo. "I suppose if it means nothing then you will not mind if I remove it."

Above her the chains clatter loudly as she yanks angrily against them. Her lips pull back in a feral snarl and finally she speaks to him in a voice brimming with poison: "you touch that mark again and I'll break your neck."

She admires the dark surprise he wears. This Allana is not the Allana he once knew.


	96. Irritate

Kaenn brings his sword down on the branch. With a groan and a crack it severs from the trunk, crashing to the ground in a clutter of leaves and twigs. His heated gazes catches the jagged gash in the tree's side. The anger surging through him wanes a little. He swings again. The tree groans, steel buried solidly in its bone. A hand comes up to press into his forehead. They'd been so close, so close. If he closes his eyes he can still see the light of battle flaring in her eyes, the look of survival.

If Ezra hadn't grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him after the others he would probably have gutted the guards. It would have landed them in hot water and worsened the already tense peace treaty between the Tribe and the Crown. But Allana would have been safe. She wouldn't have been dragged away.

There's an annoying feeling buzzing in his veins. It tingles beneath the mark over his heart. Is hers doing the same? He smiles softly. The memory of that day is still so bright in his mind. They were bonded now, marked by Ethal. No one could tear them apart.

His shoulders ache. They've been doing that for two days now. Masri help him he wants to break into Cyrith's castle and lay waste to it. Soak the fancy tiles in thick red. Split the walls in half. Tear the stone monstrosity to the ground. If Atsiya wasn't visiting perhaps Ethal might have let him.

"Can you feel her?"

Kaenn spins. His leader inclines her head. Her bow is trained on the ground, arrow strung loosely. The arm brace and chest guard worn over her tunic are of the finest leather, pure black and cut into scales.

"I can, Ethal. She's still alive."

Ethal smiles, predatory and wild. "Take Ezra, Rian, and a few others. Find her. Do not return unless you have her."

"Understood. Thank you," Kaenn slides his sword away and begins making his way towards the village.

"Oh," Ethal's voice stops him, "I think it might be time to show the Crown who we really are."

* * *

_an:_

_kaenn: willowclaw_

_rian: rainpatch_

_ezra: eaglestrike_

_ethal: apollo_

_names might change in the future._


	97. Ant

The bastard has a chair in the cell now; old, ratty, creaky. He sits there day after day watching her grow weaker. She gets food, but it's usually only stale bread and some water. Her head hangs limp, cheek resting against her shoulder; she can't feel her arms anymore. All he does is sit and stare. Occasionally he'll make a comment. Sometimes he has a book with him, and a pen, and spends the day writing.

Today her patience runs out. The staring, the comments, the prodding at her bond mark with his cool hand - it's all too much. She rolls her head back straining to lift it off her shoulder. He watches her. Allana wonders if he even sees her as a human, or if to him she's an insect to investigate; a tiny, insignificant ant to crush under his boot once he's done.

"Do you finally have something to say, sweetheart?" Cyrith coos.

Allana bristles but bites her tongue. "I do." Her voice is hoarse and brittle. "I'll give you one answer to one question. But," she smiles lazily, almost predatory, "only if you promise to leave me alone."

"You drive such a hard bargain," he sighs. "Fine. Deal. Now, tell me what that tattoo over your heart means."

While it was supposed to be a tradition sacred to the Tribe, a secret from the rest of the world, Allana grins at the prospect of telling him. "It's a bonding tattoo."

There's a look of shock horror spreading across his handsome face. Allana soaks it in. _Let him hurt, let him ache. He deserves it_. His words hiss out from between his teeth, "what do you mean it's a 'bonding' mark?"

"Do you want me to spell it out in commoner terms for you?" she purrs. "I'm married. There's a handsome tribesman waiting for me." Her next words get stuck in her throat, Cyrith's hand tightening around it. His palm grows hot, searing her flesh. Allana only scowls at him. "Do it. I _dare_ you. You won't, you're too weak. Books were always more your thing."

His hand abruptly leaves, Cyrith storming angrily from the cell, door slamming shut with a clang that echoes. Allana sags once more, vision blurry, but a cruel grin still in place.

The boot might crush the ant in the end. But the ant always bites first.


	98. Hold Your Tongue

Her entire body is buzzing. Her bond mark is throbbing. Beneath it her heart races. Kaenn's nearby. He's looking for her, and he is pissed. It makes her toes curl. He will tear this castle to the very ground to rescue her. No one will be able to stand in his way.

"Why do you look so happy?" Cyrith spat from outside the cell. He hasn't been back in three days, off sulking in the shadows.

Allana tilts her head and offers him a lazy smile. She'll give Kaenn as long as possible, keep Cyrith busy. The rest is up to him. There are other powerful people staying in the castle. "I was just thinking," she hums.

"About?"

_Still interested, aren't you?_ She bites back a pleased noise. _So easy_. "About before I ran away." Cyrith's frown slips. "About when we were engaged. It's been such a long time since I thought about it." That wipes the frown right off his face. "Everyone was so happy when it was announced."

"Were you?" he blurts, "happy?"

Allana pauses, then says, "I was. For a while. Were you?"

The gate doesn't shriek as loudly as usual. His footsteps are quieter, his face softer. He looks almost vulnerable. "Very. It...I can hardly explain how it felt to hear that your family accepted the offer, even if it was advantageous for them."

"I don't think anyone's parents would have turned down the offer to marry their daughter off to a prince," Allana murmured.

"But you weren't particularly happy."

She watched him step closer. His hands fluttered about the bottom of his royal red coat. "When the reality of it all set in, no. Being a princess felt more like a cage than a blessing. So I ran." Cyrith stands in front of her now. _Strange, I could have thought his eyes were green, not amber_. She nearly flinches when he raises a hand and cups her cheek. "Do you hate me?" she whispers.

"I don't think I could ever really hate you, sweetheart," he says softly. "Don't you ever miss it? Don't you ever wonder what could have been?"

As much as she wants to say she hasn't, she had. The first few months in the Tribe had been tough. Her life had been easy up until that point; the heiress of a grand estate she'd had all she would ever need. Except freedom. But those soft comforts had been a siren call. She could have been a princess, rich and well looked after.

A little bending of the truth will be necessary to keep him from skulking off again. "I do, sometimes."

His hand abruptly leaves and reaches up to the chains keeping her arms out of the way. There's rattling, he curses under his breath, then her arms drop free. He catches them by the wrist and wraps them round his neck. Allana is mildly impressed by his boldness, but also grateful because she really cannot feel her arms. Her bond mark throbs. He's so close, Kaenn is so near, she needs to buy him more time.

"I think about it everyday," Cyrith murmurs, his face a whisper away from hers. A hand grasps the bottom of her chin, tilts her head up. Allana feels more than hears his next words, a tiny slither of air all that rests between their lips. "May I?"

A long time ago she might have said yes, might have given in and let him. But she was no longer the spoilt rich girl. She was a warrior. Between her shoulder blades her skin burns, a delicious ache spreading. She gives them permission.

And her wings burst free.

"No," Allana says, hands wrapping around his throat, eyes wild, "you may not."


	99. Sneeze

It's not often Leon goes looking for Soran. Their friendship - if it can even be called that - has stages. Soran shows up in a bad mood. Soran yells and shouts and sneers till he feels better. Soran apologises the next day, and Leon forgives him every time. He doesn't know why he does it; that's a lie, he does. He worries about Soran.

Which is why he's now nosing his way across the meadow towards the tree Soran spends most of his time at. Though Soran might never admit it, Leon knows why he's made that tree his home; it's a punishment. It's awfully similar to the tree he died in.

Over the sound of the river bubbling gently Leon hears sniffling. He twitches his ears. It's definitely sniffling. His concern drives him over thick tree roots and onto soft, sandy dirt. Soran's in his nest - a dilapidated thing of moss and ruffled feathers - head on his paws, eyes glassy and far away. His cheeks are damp. Leon feels his heart clench.

"Soran," he says quietly, "are you okay?" He expects him to spit nasty words and scurry off into the forest. Instead Soran just scrubs at his face.

"Yeah," he answers, voice hoarse and cracked.

"Don't lie to me." Leon creeps closer. "You don't have to lie to me."

Soran gives him that look. The one with the impossibly soft eyes and ever so slight smile; the one Leon loves and loathes for the way it makes him feel. "Do you really want to know?" he murmurs. Leon nods, so Soran waves his paw to a patch of golden sunlight. It's no longer an empty patch. Playing across it like a sickly nightmare is the shadow of a feline, dangling by their neck.

"Why do you remind yourself of it? Why not just forget about it?" Leon asks.

Soran pulls himself from his rumpled nest. There's something odd in his eyes, something Leon can't place. He stands his ground when Soran stands in front of him, practically towering over him. Height wasn't something Leon had been blessed with. Soran grins, it's strained and his cheeks are still damp, and then his paws are disappearing out from under him. The sand is soft on his back.

He's about to bark something rude when Soran presses a claw against a scar. The memories are waiting in the back of his mind, biding their time till they can consume him again. Soran wavers above him, black fur turning brown, Cyrith returning to trace the scar he'd left.

"Strangely," Soran's voice is quiet, "I don't think I'm the only one still living in the past." He follows the scar with his claw, from belly to chin.

Leon shoves Soran away with a sandy paw to the nose. It leaves behind a layer of sand. Soran wrinkles his nose once, twice, then sneezes. Leon laughs, "cute."

* * *

**a drabble is only 100 words you say? ridiculous. lies. blasphemy.**


	100. Swing

He sees it whenever he closes his eyes. He feels the tightness wrapping around his throat, squeezing. It won't go away, won't leave him alone. Seasons, decades, have passed. But it still haunts him.

Dragging heavy eyes to the tree he's made his home under, he sees - _feels_ \- it all again. The taste of glorious victory as those cursed Elementals sway under his strength. The delight in how his family will finally see him for who he truly is: their saviour. The sickening horror as those barbed vines struck, slipping round his neck and wrenching him into the air. He coughs and gags, tosses and writhes, till spots blacken his vision and his chest aches. A spear, freezing and deadly, misses his heart. Through the darkness he watches them disappear beneath a veil of ice. Then he gives up.

He accepts the slimy creature that had been taking up residence in his chest; the agonising need to _die_. He had tried to be the hero his Clan had needed, tried to be a shining legend wreathed in glory. But heroes did not have darkness for an ally, did not hear the shadows croon to them late at night. He hadn't even noticed the evil taking root until it had been for too late and he'd been for too gone to do anything other than accept it as who he truly was.

Death sweeps in on quiet wings and Soran does not struggle when it plucks him free and casts him far.

He drags himself away from the tree, away from the dangling shadow, to the river that burbles pleasantly by. A swipe of a paw and he's seeing her, losing the delicate grip on her awful power. It's more instinct than a decision when he goes to her. Because Soran had promised himself he would never let another become what he had, _die_ like he had: yearning so desperately for it all to end.


End file.
